


Dragon-Cursed

by TheDreamsOfTheAges (LadyOfTheSouthernIsles)



Category: Hellboy (Movies), Hellboy - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-14 19:17:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7186805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyOfTheSouthernIsles/pseuds/TheDreamsOfTheAges
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An acolyte of ancient Darkness resurrects the Elven twins as unwitting pawns in a scheme to steal the heart of their magic - the gossamer threads of Light that are woven into the very fabric of Eternity. But the sentinels of Light laid their own plans a long time ago and nothing is set in stone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Trembling of the Veil (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> _Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from this work._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Not rated but there are some sex scenes (about 5-6 in the whole story) so beware if that's not your thing.

_In one blazing moment of imbalance, a moment of exquisite perfection, the vast, cold expanse of the void was ripped asunder by light, and the flaming filaments of life burst forth into eternity.  But the ancestral darkness is infinite and there are those who would seize the bright fire of the eternal for their own.  
_

**... ... ...**

From out of the depths of the vast ancient chamber, a woman of such beauty as to steal his breath away.  Long, silver hair framing a bone-white face.  Thin black lips over sharp, gleaming teeth.  And her eyes!  Oh, her eyes…  Hell-red and burning with all the life of time.  Fierce, terrible perfection. _An bhean chaointe._   The White Lady of Sorrow.  And in her veins, _bean-s_ _ídhe_ blood.  Blood to gather the spirits. Blood to anchor the magic... 

The _Draoidubh_ glanced at the stone figures lying in the dust beneath the dragon’s wishbone, one whole, the other in pieces.  Beibhinn, the White Lady, stopped before him and touched his face.  The soft folds of her moss-green mantle fell back, revealing her pale flesh beneath.  About her brow she wore the willow, the only sign of regret for what was to come and the waves that would follow.  An eternity’s worth of loss.  For her.  A heart doomed to forever mourn.  There would be other consequences too.  For him.  Somewhere in the fabric of time.  The price of the dare.  But he was more than equal to it, of that he was certain.  He placed his hand over hers and as he did so, his gaze fell upon the jagged scar encircling his wrist.  Yes, he had learned his lesson; he would never again underestimate anyone or anything. 

“It is time,” he said abruptly.  She nodded and, without another word, they set about the preparations for the ritual, _an D_ _óiteáin de Aiséirí_.  The Fire of Resurrection. 

First was the bone chalice, of a dull, drained white and placed under the altar to catch the blood.  Then came the candles, shaped from the lard of the chosen ones.  They were laid out around the lapidified bodies and lit.  The Draoidubh watched as smoky amber flames sputtered into life, flared, and settled into a steady burn.  The taint of the lich-house soon filled the air and his hard-hewn features twisted in a sour expression.  No clean-wrought magic for him.  No, _his_ art was shot through with the stain of impurity, the need for blood, flesh and bone.  The flaw of humanity.  Unalterable.  Innate.  It was ever that way and always a goad to him.  But not for long, Fate be willing. 

As he silently prayed to the Mór-Ríogain, Beibhinn - so perfect, so pure - placed sprigs of mistletoe on the mouths of the stone figures and oak on their eyes, the first for life, the second for loyalty.  Next, she placed a knife on the ivory altar.  The bronze blade and white-gold hilt were inlaid with swirling filigree symbols that no longer meant anything to anyone but him.  _Carnwennan_.  The ancient dagger of the Druids.  Once Arthur’s, now his again. 

Beibhinn turned to look at him, her eyes claret hellfire in the flickering candlelight, and he knelt down and reached into his knapsack for the final thing, the scry-stone.  Even before he had touched it, he could feel its power: a primal pulse from the night before time.  He stared at the obsidian relic.  Like a mirror it was, and bound by no name.  Older even than the Dream Age of the Ancestors and a far greater thing than any word could contain.  Unbidden, from across the centuries, came a whispered snatch of conversation. 

 _You would fain sell your soul, Sir, for the Devil_ _’s looking-glass?_  

His brittle-green eyes narrowed.  Dee of Mortlake.  ‘Doctor’, so-called, with his physicks and his potions.  Advisor to a queen, and a seer for the age.  The man hadn’t had the faintest notion of what he truly possessed in the scry-stone, and nor had Arthur of Cymru in Carnwennan.  Fools both, those two.  They had had that much in common though they had been, by nature, like opposite points on the compass, and separated in time by a thousand years or more.   But they hadn’t been the only fools… 

His brows snapped together and he rose to his feet.  After placing the scry-stone on the altar, he held out his hand to Beibhinn.   She took it and he pulled her in close.  

“You are sure?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yes, _a ghr_ _á._ I am sure.  For the old ways and for you.”

“Very well.  Our man will be here soon.  The ritual needs to be completed before he arrives.” 

He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed off her green mantle.  As it pooled on the ground, he leaned her back between the osseous, white columns of the altar.  The bones swallowed up her skin but her eyes burned red from the cradle of the dragon’s wishbone.  He took hold of Carnwennan and began to chant...

_Etirun, Taranis, Goibniu.  Etirun, Taranis, Goibniu_

Beibhinn’s voice joined with his. 

_Etirun, Taranis, Goibniu.  We call on you.  Etirun, Taranis, Goibniu_

A sigh of wind whispered through the chamber, kicking up puffs of dust on the ground.  His heartbeat quickened; it was starting.

_Etirun, Taranis, Goibniu.  Thrice-great God, we beseech you_

Across the surface of the scry-stone snaked a shadowy ripple and he felt a lightness in his chest; the Old Ones were stirring.

_Thrice-great of darkness_

The wind gusted life into the dust, and a sea of shadows surged on the face of the scry-stone.

_Thrice-great of fury_

The shadows snatched at the air… 

_Thrice-great of chaos_

… and the wind howled, full-throated.  Malignant, desolate, wild.

_Hear us_

The Gods were awake.

_Answer us_

A white wall of lightning, the crash of thunder, and finally…

_Gods, grant us your favour_

… a breath.

Sublime, spectral silence.  Poised on the knife-edge of eternity.  Trembling.  In thrall.  Consumed.  Ten thousand years it was ever thus and then the walls of time were no more…

Shadow-blue waves splintered the glass of the ocean; the pale winter sun glinted prisms on the swell.  The blinding beauty of light in his eyes.  The salt-tang of sea-spray in his mouth.  And all around, the soughing call of wind and wave, the ancient song of life.  Liminal transcendence flaying all it touched.  _Too sharp.  Too real_ _…_

They pushed the burning boats out onto the water, stepped back and shaded their eyes against the evening light.  He drew a deep breath.  The smell of woodsmoke filled his nostrils.  The boats were ablaze now and the sun too.  Writhing claws of blood-orange fire, burning up the sky, incinerating the screams from the flaming pyres.  _To give life to the Gods_ _…_

The young Erlking stood beside him, tall and proud, his hair and his hand silver fire in the sunset, his handsome face wiped clean of all expression.  A different way this, the Draoidubh mused.  For the Erlking, at least.  Hard to know just what he thought, with his elfin ways and his elfin magic.  And his long, long life that might never end.  What Gods had favoured _him_ so?

 _Prithee, favour me_.

The last fierce flare of the sun in descent, the crash of the waves on the shore, and the breath was knocked out of his body.  He doubled over, gasping for air, and when he raised his head the walls of time were back in place and he was back in the caves of Bethmoora.  He looked at his hand - argent-white wet - and then again at Beibhinn.  Carnwennan was buried deep in her heart.  Silver ichor welled up from the wound, flowed over her breast and onto the ground below.  She gave a soft gasp…

_Etirun, Taranis, Goibniu_

… stiffened and slumped…

_For the old ways and for me_

… and the fire in her eyes went out.

Still fighting for breath, he seized up the bone chalice and held it under her breast.  The desolate wind tore at his long, dark hair as the blood flowed out of her body.  And then his breath was back and Carnwennan too and the chalice was full to the brim. 

He turned to the fallen figures.  New-forming shoots of life criss-crossed cadaverous stone.  Quickly, before the moment was lost, he poured the faerie blood over them.   It ran like quicksilver along the shimmering ley lines, drawing the smoky amber flames of the candles and turning them into a glistening inferno.  _The blinding beauty of light._ The one thing that was out of his reach.  But not for long.

The bodies were changing now, regaining a fleshly appearance.  Mistletoe and oak twisted in the fire, stitched itself into breathless lips and unseeing eyes, knitted into the sinew and bone beneath.  The Draoidubh snatched up Beibhinn’s hand and gave a sharp tug.  Her corpse tumbled forward into the flames, sprawling over the awakening bodies.  He scooped up her mantle and threw it on the fire after her.  There must be nothing left for the channering worm and nothing left for other eyes.

He stepped back and watched as the magic did its work.  It was fitting that these two should play this part; it had started with their sire and would end with them.  The Erlking’s spawn.  The cursed twins of madness and grief.  A better bet than Balor, surely.  A weak and foolish king who had lost his nerve and his will, undone by his own cowardice, driven into the shadows.  They could have been gods…

These two were different though.  Strange to think he had discounted them, had seen neither the spark of their dam in them nor considered their potential.  It must have been that his timing was off.  He glanced down at the scar on his wrist; it still seemed off sometimes, and there were other scars too.  But that was past.  Over.  Dead.  His time was now, and he would succeed where others had failed.

 _For the old ways and for me_ _…_

He had made sure of that.  Unlike their father, these two wold be his creatures.  He noted how their chests rose and fell as breath suffused their bodies.  It was almost done.  The hate-filled prince and his whey-faced bitch of a sister would live again.  And once they had served their purpose... well, they need not linger.

A small noise in the cavern beyond caught the Draoidubh’s attention.  The time had arrived.  With a flick of his fingers and a few whispered words, he stilled the wind and quelled the magical fire.  His hands trembled with anticipation as he gathered everything up and put it all back in his knapsack.  Another glance at the elfin twins and he saw that they had completely regenerated; consciousness was returning.  He called upon the Old Ones once more…

_Etirun, Taranis, Goibniu_

_…_ and the dragon’s wishbone crumbled to dust along with the last traces of Beibhinn’s body.  The chamber was as it had been these last four years.  He made for the passageway behind the spurwheel of the dais, pausing only to take one last look at his handiwork.  The princess still lay on her back, moaning in confusion, her arm draped over her forehead, and the prince was on his hands and knees, attempting to gain his feet.  At the head of the stairs, on the opposite side of the chamber, a thin beam of light appeared.

The Draoidubh slipped into the tunnel and hastened away.  He had won his battle with time and outlasted even the Erlking, the most ancient and powerful of them all.  And now he would have their very magic, for what good was immortality without the power of the Gods...

**... ... ...**

The man’s torch lit only the ground in front of his feet; for some reason, its beam was unable to pierce the shadows clinging to the walls of the passageway.  He had the feeling that if he stretched his hand out into the inky darkness, he might not get it back again.  His fist clenched around the smooth, black stone he had been given.  His ace in the hole and, apart from his Glock, the only defence he had.  It was so small.  So easy to drop…  So easy to lose. 

He huffed with relief as he arrived at the outer chamber.  It was brighter here than in the tunnels, though he had no idea where the dim light was coming from.  He paused to take stock of his surroundings and his nascent sense of relief evaporated.  Hundreds of feet below, on the floor of the massive cavern and stretching out as far as the eye could see, was a legion of sleeping giants, packed row-upon-row.  He knew straight away what they were; knew, too, they had been permanently shut down four years ago.  Even so, the hairs on the back of his neck still lifted at his first actual sight of them.  _What they had been capable of_ _…  The destruction they could have caused…_ Shaking off the thought, he focused on the causeway ahead and hurried across, gripping the rune stone even more tightly.

Finally he stood at the foot of the great, ancient steps: the last leg before - success, he hoped.  He _never_ operated like this - on the fly and without backup - but they were racing against the clock and there had been no time for anything else.  Besides, he wasn’t sure who he could trust anymore, not with something like this.  Of course, if the ground hadn’t closed up and locked them out four years ago, he wouldn’t be in this position now.  They would have swept through the place, collected and catalogued everything and then stored it away, safely and securely.  There would have been nothing left for anyone to get their hands on.  No, he didn’t like the situation one little bit.  Protocol and procedure - the habits of a lifetime - screamed out against it, but it was too late to turn back.  Events had already been set in motion and it was now up to him to gain what control he could. 

He advanced cautiously up the stairs and stopped just shy of the top.  His eyes followed the lines of the vast, soaring walls - up, up and up into an impenetrable pitch-black.  He breathed in the cool, dry air of the centuries, wrinkled his nose at the underlying stench, strained to make sense of the tiny slivers of sound in the forgotten silence - _the beat of his own heart, the huff of his own breath perhaps_ \- and looked, at last, upon the lifeless, golden colossi lying in the dust.  They obscured his view of the rest of the chamber. 

Still clutching the flat black stone in one hand, he clipped his torch to his belt with the other and drew his service weapon.  Time now for the main action and no time for mistakes.  The sweat started to bead on his forehead.  He lifted an arm to wipe it away but an image flashed through his mind: of his gun and the rune stone tumbling down the stairs, over the edge of the causeway and into the cavern below.  Swallowing hard, he lowered his arm and mounted the last few steps, hesitated briefly at the top, and walked out into the arena. 

And stopped dead in his tracks as his eyes collided with the deadly flame-gold gaze of Prince Nuada, Silverlance.  His stomach dropped to his feet, but Tom Manning, Director of the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defence, knew what he had to do; his life - and just maybe the fate of the world - depended on it.  Training his gun on the crouching elven warrior, he held out the rune stone exactly as he had been told to - charm-side out - and, in an unsteady voice, began to recite the spell of binding.  And hoped like hell it was going to work.

 

* * *

**References:**

Chapter Title:  _The Trembling of the Veil_ \- W. B. Yeats (title of an autobiographical work and quoting Stephane Mallarmé.)

The ancestral darkness:  W.B. Yeats, _The Celtic Twilight._

An bhean chaointe: (Irish Gaelic) ‘the keening woman’.

The White Lady of Sorrow: another name for the bean-sídhe.

Bean-sídhe: (Irish Gaelic) in Irish mythology, a female spirit - often considered an omen of death and a messenger from the Otherworld.

Draoidubh: (from Gaelic) Dark Sorcerer - ‘draoi’ meaning druid or sorcerer, and ‘dubh’ meaning black or dark.

Beibhinn (BE-veen):  (Irish Gaelic) name, ‘woman’ or ‘lady’ and ‘fair’ or ‘white’.

To wear the willow: to go into mourning, especially for a lost love.

An Dóiteáin de Aiséirí: (Irish Gaelic) The Fire of Resurrection.

Lich-house:  (Middle English) ‘corpse + house’, charnel house, mortuary.

Lapidify: To change to stone [from French _lapidifier,_ from Medieval Latin _lapidific_ _āre,_ ultimately from Latin _lapis_ stone].

Mór-Ríogain (or The Morrígan): (Irish Gaelic) in Irish mythology, part of the trio of war-goddesses called the Mórrígna.  She a goddess of Fate and is especially concerned with fate in battle.

Mistletoe: an evergreen parasitic plant, it is often associated with the oak in Druidic mythology.  When the deciduous host tree loses its leaves, the mistletoe remains as a symbol of life in the midst of ‘death’.  
  
Oak:  An important tree in Celtic lore, the oak is associated with strength, durability, purity and constancy.  
  
Carnwennan or Carnwenhau ("white hilt") Arthurian legend - the dagger of King Arthur, sometimes attributed with the magical power to shroud its user in shadow.  It is mentioned in the Welsh medieval tale (c. 1100AD) of ‘Culhwch and Olwen.’

Fain (archaic):  gladly, willingly. 

Dr John Dee:  (1527–1608 or 1609) a Welsh mathematician, astronomer, astrologer, occultist, and consultant to Queen Elizabeth I.  His residence was in Mortlake. 

Dr Dee’s ‘Mirror’: a shew-stone, or scry-stone, used by Dee for divining the past, present and future.  An inscription on its case describes it as ‘The Devil’s looking-glass’.

Physick (archaic):  variant of ‘physic’ - a medicinal agent or preparation.

Arthur: (King Arthur of Arthurian legend) a legendary British leader, his actual existence is a matter of debate.  Medieval histories and romances have him defending Britain against Saxon invaders in around 500 AD. 

Cymru (Welsh, kum’ ri):  the Welsh name for Wales.

A ghrá: (Irish Gaelic) my love (when speaking to a person).

Etirun: (Celtic mythology) a minor thunder-god, according to the Irish Dindshenchas (a collection of Old Irish local legends.)

Taranis: (Gaulish deity) a god of thunder, his cult was a cruel one.  At Samhain, human and animal sacrifices to Taranis were burned in wooden vessels.  The name ‘Taranis’ survives on only seven altars in Europe, ranging from Britain to the Balkans.

Goibniu: (Irish mythology) smith of the Tuatha Dé Danann, one of the three gods of craft, and a god of thunder and lightning. 

Channering:  old Scottish or English word meaning ‘gnawing’.  Probably part of a regional dialect.

Dam (archaic): mother.


	2. The Bodies Obtained

“You can go in now, Miss Somerled,” said the secretary as she replaced the telephone receiver back in its cradle. 

Elfraine put down the magazine she had been flipping through and rose to her feet.  “Thank you, Miss Torres.”  She crossed briskly to the door of the inner office and stopped.  _Thomas Manning, Director_ , the brushed-silver name plate proclaimed.  She already knew that; the woman from the employment agency had been able to give her at least that much information when offering her the assignment.  However, in making her own enquiries, Elfraine had quickly discovered there wasn’t a great deal else to be had on either ‘Thomas Manning, Director,’ or the intriguingly-named ‘Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defence’: only a handful of old, difficult-to-find newspaper articles with lurid headlines, and some television footage – also on the Darknet – that raised more questions than it answered.  She had found an avalanche of internet conspiracy theories as well but they had been of next to no use – though given the manner of her arrival at the Bureau she was less inclined to dismiss them now. 

Director Manning had insisted on sending a car for her: one with darkened windows and two besuited – and imposing – agents in addition to the driver.  After frisking her and confiscating her cell phone – _just until she had signed the requisite secrecy declaration_ , one of them assured her – they had bundled her into the car, rolled up the partition separating the front and back seats, and held her more or less immobile between them for the entire journey.  After the first few turns, she had completely lost her bearings and neither of her escorts had been particularly informative despite her best efforts to draw them out.  All that had been missing was the blindfold and gag, she thought cynically. 

But far from being annoyed, she had felt a rising sense of anticipation as the car wound its way towards the Bureau’s headquarters.  Taken together, everything gave her hope that the assignment might result in a greater benefit than simply the pay packet.  One face stood bright and clear in her mind, and God and Fate be damned but she _would_ regain what she had so unforgivably lost all those years ago.   The Bureau’s archives could very well lead her to the final thing she needed in order to do that.  

It was what she focused on now as she stood outside the Director’s office.  Tamping down her excitement, she straightened her shoulders, rapped sharply on the polished wooden door and, without waiting for an answer, walked in. 

Tom Manning looked up as the door swung open.  His first thought was that the dreaded moment had finally arrived; his second, that the new archivist’s passport photo hadn’t lied - she was certainly easy on the eye.  He stood up and walked out from behind his desk.  “Miss Somerled,” he said, extending his hand.  “I’m Tom Manning, Director of the Bureau.  Pleased to meet you.” 

“Likewise, Director Manning,” replied Elfraine as she took his hand.  “And please, call me Elfraine – or ‘Elf’ for short, if you like.” 

Manning had been listening more to the smooth tone of her voice and her polished British accent than to the actual pleasantries themselves but at that last part he froze, mid-handshake.  _‘Elf’ for short!_ That wasn’t good.  Not at all.  He wouldn’t call her anything of the sort!  His brain worked furiously.  Perhaps she’d be willing to change her name – just for the duration of the project.  Or at least keep her diminutive to herself.  It was bound to only add fuel to a certain malicious, homicidal flame not a million miles away. 

Hard on that realisation came a twinge of guilt at the thought of what he was about to subject the woman to but in view of everything that had happened over the past six months, he had no choice. Besides, it was only a temporary thing; the guys in IT had said it would take around three months for an archivist to transcribe the older collections in the Archives Storeroom into digital format and at the end of the day Prince Nuada would just have to put up with it.  After all, it _was_ the Bureau’s storeroom – no matter what the elf thought.  Trouble was, in the few months since Nuada and his sister had been at the Bureau, the prince had managed to ‘convince’ just about everyone that the storeroom was, in fact, his own personal domain.  Most people avoided using it now unless they absolutely had to, and even then they tended to get Abe to retrieve whatever they needed.  Abe was one of the most approachable agents in the Bureau and, more importantly, one of the few who was not freaked out by the elven prince’s arctic – and more often than not, venomous – manner.  Manning could only hope the archivist had some fortitude of her own; she would need it.  Her voice broke in on his thoughts. 

“Director?”  Elfraine was more than a little alarmed at the man’s sudden pallor and silence.  She retrieved her hand from his and took a step back. 

Manning quickly recovered.  “Sorry!”  He gestured to a chair in front of the desk.  “Please, have a seat – _Miss Somerled._ ”  He resumed his own and straightened some papers as he gathered his thoughts. 

With a cool arch of her brow, Elfraine sat down.  Her calm expression gave lie to the butterflies in her stomach.  She had no idea what could have possibly upset the Director in such a brief exchange and it occurred to her that access to the Bureau’s archives might not be quite the foregone conclusion she had assumed, even though the employment contract had been signed several days ago and the secrecy declaration and other forms completed just now in the outer office with Miss Torres.  She tensed as she thought about the paperwork; perhaps they had discovered something amiss with her own.  It was getting harder and harder to lay hands on the right documentation: forgeries that could pass electronic muster…  

“As you know,” said Manning, finally deciding on his approach, “the Bureau’s archives contain several old collections that need to be transcribed into digital format.”  He looked up.  “Urgently.” 

Elfraine relaxed a little; so far, so good.  She cautiously inclined her head. 

“I’ll show you the Archives’ Storeroom today,” Manning continued, “and introduce you to some of our agents.  You might find them – _useful_.”  He grimaced as he spoke.  ‘Useful’ was an understatement but he wasn’t quite sure how else to put it.  Quite apart from giving her a heads up about the Enhanced Talents team, so she wasn’t too surprised when she met them, he was counting on them to keep Nuada in line over the coming months so Miss Somerled could get the project done.  Manning was certain the prince wouldn’t be so accommodating as to find somewhere else to skulk for the duration.  And that reminded him, as if he could forget – he needed to warn her about the elven prince, without scaring her off before she’d even started.  Where to begin with that one, he wondered. 

Elfraine realised the job was still hers; it was obvious from what the Director was saying.  All the same, he was clearly working up to something and she wondered what it was he was so reluctant to tell her.  She wished he would hurry up; she was just _dying_ to start work on the archives now.  The irony of _that_ thought put a gleam in her eye and she flashed him an encouraging smile, to speed things along. 

Manning took the hint and heaved a sigh.  He tried to pick his words carefully.  “The project’s pretty straightforward and I’m sure you’ll have no problem with the actual work but - ”  He hesitated again and Elfraine smiled again, a little less brightly this time. 

“The thing is…”  Manning equivocated once more. 

“Yes, Director?”  Her tone was short but she couldn’t help it; she was becoming impatient.  With each passing minute, she was more and more convinced the Bureau’s archives contained the information she sought.  Nothing on earth could change her mind about the job now.  She dropped all pretence of accommodation.  “If it’s bad news, you might as well serve it straight,” she told him.  “I’m not as fragile as you think.” 

Manning bristled at her tone.  “Right, Miss Somerled,” he shot back.  “Straight it is.  The agents you’re about to meet are like no one else you’ve ever met before.” 

“I doubt that,” she murmured. 

He frowned and continued.  “One of them – Hellboy – he’s half-human, half-demon.  His wife, Liz Sherman, has pyrokinetic abilities.  Abraham Sapien is an ichthyo sapien – a fish-man – and Johann Kraus is – well, he’s an ectoplasmic being.”  Manning paused to let _that_ sink in. 

Elfraine looked only slightly interested in his pronouncement. “So, the newspaper articles and TV clips were more or less right after all,” she said, offhandedly.  As long as the Bureau’s agents kept out of the Archives Room, she didn’t care what they were. 

“Er, yes,” said Manning, a little off balance.  Her lack of reaction surprised him, as did her mention of the old newspaper clippings and television footage.  He thought he had well and truly buried those four years ago. 

“I’m sure we’ll get along famously,” Elfraine assured him. 

“No doubt,” he muttered, “but they’re not the ones I’m worried about.” 

“Oh?” Elfraine felt a frisson of alarm at the hangdog look on the Director’s face. 

“We have a – guest, I suppose you could call him,” Manning explained.  “He has a special interest in the Archives Storeroom and spends a lot of time in there.” 

Elfraine’s eyes narrowed.  

“Unfortunately,” continued Manning, “he’s not very friendly.” 

“Oh, I’m sure I can handle him,” broke in Elfraine.  “I’m used to dealing with all sorts.”  She was already thinking of ways in which she could rid herself of the unexpected – and unwanted – ‘guest’. 

Manning was taken aback by the hard gleam in her big, brown eyes.  However, he doubted she could handle Nuada.  The prince had put the fear of God into some of the Bureau’s toughest and most experienced agents – the human ones that was.  The woman in front of him, although undeniably striking in the looks department, wasn’t in any way physically imposing.  She was of only average height and slim, and Manning thought that even he could pick her up with one arm.  He couldn’t imagine her presenting a serious threat to anyone, let alone a battle-hardened elven warrior with some four thousand years’ worth of experience behind him.  And if she thought she could charm the prince, well… she would soon find out otherwise.  Manning knew he needed to make it quite clear to Miss Somerled just what she was up against.  “I mean,” he forged on, “he’s so unfriendly, he wants to wipe out all humanity.” 

That got a reaction; she seemed lost for words.  But before he could assure her she would be protected, she found her tongue again.  “Well then lock him up, Director!” she said.  “Why on earth is he allowed free run of the place if that’s how he thinks!” 

Manning couldn’t really fault her on that point; he wondered the same thing himself.  He knew now he had been overly optimistic when he used the rune stone and spell after Nuada and his sister had been resurrected just over four months’ ago.  He had quickly discovered he had a tiger by the tail, and the rune stone was only a tenuous restraint at best.  Technically speaking, the prince hadn’t broken his word and so Manning had no grounds to go back on his own but he wasn’t going to explain any of that to the archivist – not when he hadn’t even told any of his agents the true circumstances behind the elves’ presence at the Bureau – and so he cavilled now.  “It’s not exactly ‘free run’,” he said, “and besides, it’s… complicated.” 

“Complicated how?” 

Manning ignored the question and rushed on.  “Anyway, Hellboy’s team will provide protection, and the Archives’ room is a decent size.  You should be able to keep out of each others’ way.” 

“I see,” was all Elfraine said.  Her mind was chewing on this new piece of information; for all that it was a ‘decent size’, the Archives’ room was going to be far too crowded for her liking. 

Manning pressed on towards the last hurdle.  “There’s one other thing, Miss Somerled,” he said. 

“Yes?”  She wondered what else there could possibly be. 

“Our… _guest_ is a four thousand-year-old elven prince.” 

Elfraine felt as if she had just sucked on a lemon.  The situation was becoming more and more… _complicated_ , to borrow a word from the Director.   A four thousand-year-old elven prince with genocidal tendencies presented more of a challenge than a mere unfriendly guest with same.  Still she was nothing if not resourceful.  She was certain she would find some way to rid herself of said elven prince, as well as the Bureau’s team of ‘bodyguards’.  Smoothing her features into a neutral expression, she spoke.  “As I told you, Director Manning, I’ve dealt with all sorts.  I’m sure we can work _something_ out.” 

“Well then!” said Manning.  “Good!”  It was all out in the open – at least, the relevant parts were.  He heaved a mental sigh of relief and allowed himself to think that the next three months might not be as difficult as he had anticipated.  Of course, there was still the main business at hand to be dealt with but if he didn’t have to spend his time mediating between Nuada and Miss Somerled or recruiting for a new archivist should the elven prince scare her off- and that was still a possibility – then he could count it a victory.  He stood up and said, resolutely, “That’s everything covered, Miss Somerled.  If you’re ready, I’ll take you to meet the others in the Archives Storeroom.” 

“Very well, Director,” said Elfraine, also standing, “‘ _Once more unto the breach_ ’, good sir.”  

The irony of the quote went entirely over Manning’s head. 

**… … …**

 Nuada strode up and down the length of the Archives Storeroom, in the grip of a cold fury.  This was the final humiliation but he had no choice other than to bear it, thanks, once again, to Manning and his accursed rune stone.  That didn’t mean he would make it easy for the Bureau’s puppets though.  He was certainly not going to cede the room to their new archivist or let her interfere with his own work in even the slightest way.  He would, instead, make sure he instilled in her a proper measure of fear and respect, an easy enough task with what was certain to be a soft, spineless creature.  Scowling, he recalled that Manning had asked Anung un Rama and his lackeys to give the woman whatever assistance she required – to act as bodyguards, in effect.  Well, he would just have to play a careful game in that case.  But make no mistake, the archivist would have a clear understanding of her place in the scheme of things by the time he had finished with her. 

_A clear understanding_ …  The thought caught in Nuada’s mind and he broke his stride.  A clear understanding would be a fine thing indeed: a clear understanding of what had happened that day, four months ago, in the Cave of the Golden Army, and why it had happened; a clear understanding of how that creeping toad, Manning, had obtained the rune stone and learned to use it; and a clear understanding of who was behind it all – for he didn’t believe for one minute that _Director_ Manning was directing anything other than his precious Bureau. 

_If you cannot command then you must obey..._ The words sprang up, unbidden.  He had uttered them four years ago, to taunt the demon, and now they had been turned back on him.  His jaw clenched and his lips flattened in a thin black slash of anger.  He was the uncrowned King of Bethmoora, a warrior with over four thousand years’ worth of experience, and yet he was forced to obey a selfish, hollow creature like Manning.  It was a source of unbearable humiliation.  His oath – a thing of value, a source of pride – had been reduced to rancid, bitter words given against his will. 

But he had borne too much over the centuries to be undone by this.  He would do as he always had:  fight back in any way he could.  First though, he needed to break the hold of the rune stone and he hoped that somewhere in the Bureau’s old archives he would find the way to do that.  Of course, he still had other ways of finding things out, through the contacts he had re-established in the Mhargaidh Troll, but he had already discovered some very interesting tomes in the archives and if he was honest, he didn’t want it known amongst his own kind that he was powerless against Thomas Manning and his infernal rune stone. 

Whatever Manning had done, however he had done it, Nuada was certain the man hadn’t done it on his own – or had even thought to do it – and once he found a way out of this bind, he would hunt down the true architect.  After, that is, he wreaked vengeance on Manning and every other person in this wretched place.  Including his sister.  Nuala.  The destroyer of the ancient House of Airgetlám – _her_ house, and his too – and the one who would see of the last remnants of their people – the Tuatha Dé, a race as old as time – fade from this earth.  He would never underestimate her again…

 

* * *

 

**References:  
**

'Once more unto the breach' – Shakespeare, _Henry V, Act III_. 

Mhargaidh Troll Oirthir Mhór: (Irish Gaelic) Great Eastern Troll Market. 

Airgetlám (silver hand/arm): (Irish mythology) the epithet of Nuada, the first king of the Tuatha Dé Danann. 

Tuatha Dé: (Irish mythology) “People of the Gods”.  Also called “the Ever-Living Ones” (implied by _áes sídhe_ – Ir. “people of the sídh”.)


	3. Instincts That Can Still Betray Us

The door to the Archives Room burst open and Hellboy walked in followed by Liz, Kraus, Myers, and Nuala and Abe.  Nuada immediately took up position at the far end of the storeroom.  He propped his shoulder against the wall and folded his arms over his chest as he stared at the group through half-lidded eyes. 

Hellboy gave a cool nod to the elven prince and then promptly ignored him.  “I hope this doesn’t take long,” he said, turning to the others.  “I didn’t come back just to babysit for Manning.  Ow!”  He rubbed his side and glared down at Liz, who had just elbowed him.  “We’ve got better things to do,” he grumbled. 

“Like run into one dead end after another,” she said.  “You know this is pretty much our last resort.  If we find something useful in the archives we might be able wrap this up and take the kids home.  If we don’t…”   Her voice trailed off. 

“I suppose,” agreed Hellboy reluctantly.  “I’m just not used to sitting around, waiting for the other side to make the next move.” 

“So far, the other side has been making the _all_ the moves,” Liz pointed out dryly. 

“Yeah, and that’s what pisses me off.  That and being back here again.” 

“I know, Red.”  She squeezed his arm in sympathy.  “I want to go home too.  I didn’t think we’d be here this long either.”  When Manning had asked them to re-join the BPRD, four months ago, after the elven twins had been resurrected, she and Hellboy had refused at first.  They wanted nothing more to do with the Bureau and, unlike Abe, saw no good reason to return – until Manning had finally filled them in on exactly what was going on.  Or as much as anyone knew about what was going on.  There had been reports from a dozen or so places around the world of attacks by strange, lethal shadow creatures – half-man half-beast, according to some accounts.  Nobody had been able to work out what they were or where they came from, and there were no discernible patterns except that the outcome in each case was always the same: death.   What witnesses there were said the creatures somehow ‘devoured light’, whatever that meant.  Then two months ago, things had reached a crisis point when the European branch of the Bureau lost an entire team to the shadow creatures and the US branch three in quick succession.  Just after that, Manning had asked her and Red to reconsider their decision. 

Liz knew it was a disaster and one without precedent.  The Bureau was close to being overwhelmed by this new enemy and it didn’t help that Manning was as concerned with keeping things out of the press as he was with getting to the bottom of them, but then that was the Director – a government man through and through.  Had it just been the usual run-of-the-mill supernatural stuff, she and Red would have stuck to their guns but given that there was no guarantee the whole world wouldn’t end up being overwhelmed along with the Bureau, they had been persuaded to come back – on a strictly temporary basis.  Which was turning out to be not so temporary.  Sometimes, it felt like they had never left in the first place except that there were now the kids to remind them differently. 

One thing had surprised them when they returned though.  They found out that after the discovery, four years ago, of a whole other world hidden within their own, the Bureau had reached out to some of its more ‘receptive’ inhabitants. The usual make-nice noises were deployed – about the benefits of establishing cooperative relations between the two worlds and so on – but underneath it all lay a deep well of distrust and a solid base of self-interest.  On both sides.  Added to that, was the difficulty of doing any negotiating at all with the Fae.  With the elven king Balor dead, there wasn’t anyone in charge of anything anymore in their realm, or rather, there were too many who claimed the right to negotiate – or not – as they saw fit.  As a result, those ‘relations’ between the Bureau’s agents and the Fae were hardly any better than they had been four years ago.  Suspicion and mistrust still ruled in the uneasy détente which had developed between the two sides. 

Liz glanced at Nuada.  As usual, he was standing about as far away from everyone as he could possibly get without actually leaving the room.  It would have been outright war if _he_ had of succeeded his father.  The world – or at least, the human world – owed Nuala big time, even though they didn’t know it.  Liz narrowed her eyes as she wondered, not for the first time, just what sort of hold Manning had on the elven prince.  He was clearly here under duress and neither he nor Manning were saying anything about what had happened in Ireland four months ago.  All Nuala could tell them was that things had already been sorted out between her brother and Manning by the time she regained consciousness.  And even though they now had common cause, what with reports of the magical races suffering similar attacks from the shadow creatures, Nuada wasn’t giving an inch in his attitude… 

A pair of hard, hate-filled golden eyes pierced Liz’s thoughts.  _Damn!_   She had been caught staring.  She resisted the instinct to look away and instead returned Nuada’s glare with steady regard.  He showed no sign of breaking eye contact.  _Double damn._ So, he wanted a stare-off to the death, did he!  That was just fine by her; _she_ wouldn’t be the first one to look away.  She had already been on the receiving end of more than her fair share of the elven prince’s death-stares, ever since Red had taken it upon himself to inform Nuada – gloat, really – that the Golden Army was nothing more than a useless pile of junk because she, Liz Sherman, had melted his precious crown. 

“Babe?” 

The softly-spoken question distracted her and she looked up at Red without thinking.  _Damn, damn and damn again_!   Nuada was sure to be smirking now. 

“You OK?” asked Hellboy.  He threw a hard look of his own at the elven prince, over the top of Liz’s head. 

“Yeah, I’m fine, hun.”  She turned her attention back to the others. 

“Brilliant idea, Abe, to transcribe those collections into digital format,” John was saying.  “If we all work on them, we might find out what those shadow creatures are and figure out a way to destroy them.” 

“It is the best chance ve haf now,” agreed Kraus.  “Those books und records contain some of der oldest writings in existence on the supernatural.” 

“I only hope they contain the information _we_ need,” said Abe, somewhat gloomily.  “It’s a long shot at best.” 

“But _something_ , at least,” said Nuala.  “Better than doing nothing.  I worry every time you go on a mission.  What if the creatures attack you?” 

“It would be something to fight back against,” muttered Hellboy. 

“When I think of all we have to lose,” continued Nuala.  “How could we bear it?” 

Abe took hold of her hand.  “I know.  And you are right.  It’s something to try, at least.”  He pressed her hand.  “Certainly better than nothing, my dear.” 

Though he was standing at the opposite end of the room, Nuada could hear every word they were saying and he tensed at the endearment.  He fastened his gaze on his sister and her lover, staring at them with naked dislike.  She heaped betrayal upon betrayal.  Not only had she sided with their father against him and proved herself willing to consign their people to oblivion, now she had taken up with one of the humans’ pets – one who had once been human himself.  Could she really not see the emptiness in them?  Recognise the fatal flaw?  Was her sense of honour so twisted?  

Honour!  Now there was a word: one without meaning for far too many these days.  It had been a shared thing once, an ideal that had bound them together – Nuala, himself and their father, Balor.  But in the end it had torn them apart and there was little enough of it left _anywhere_ in this world now.  The sickening talk of his sister and her lover only debased her further. 

Still, he couldn’t look away.  There was a perverse delight to be had in letting his eyes linger on her fair, treacherous form.  Death had severed many bonds but some still found an echo within.  What was this power she exercised over him: this power he surely _allowed_ her to exercise, even after all she had done? Four years ago, she had proved herself a stranger and made a mockery of four thousand years' worth of steadfast devotion. Though they had spent as many centuries apart as together, and though he'd had many lovers throughout his life – two of whom he would have taken for his life's mate had he had the chance - yet his sister had always held a special place in his heart: a place that belonged to her and her alone. But by her actions in the Chamber of the Golden Army, she had shown him in what little regard she held him, and it galled him that she could still command his attention so easily. 

At that moment, Abe put his arm around Nuala’s shoulders and Nuada was reminded of the day, two months ago, when he had finally confirmed his nauseating suspicion that the two were lovers... _  
_

_It was early morning and he was on his way to the Training Room. He was passing through the underground living quarters and had just turned a corner in the corridor when he almost mowed down Nuala as she was leaving one of the rooms. He unthinkingly caught her by the shoulders, to steady her, and for the briefest instant took delight in the softly dishevelled sight of her and the feel of her warm, bare skin under his hands. But as his lips started to curl in an instinctive smile of greeting, he remembered everything that lay between them.  And then the sickening realisation that it was_ Abraham's _room she was coming from slammed into him with all the force of a troll's war hammer.  
_

_He looked at her more closely then, and revulsion crawled its way up his gut, threatening to choke him as he recognised the signs of a woman who had just been well-loved. The faintest touch of colour graced her cheeks, and her lips were full and swollen, from the kisses she had no doubt just enjoyed.  The diaphanous material of her nightgown clung delicately to the tight, jutting peaks of her nipples. And her eyes! By the Gods, her eyes! They shone gold with the light of love, and he felt as if he had just been slit from throat to groin and had his innards ripped out. For he knew from her look, that Abraham was much more to her than a mere lover; it was painfully clear that the ichthyo sapien was her heart's mate. An impotent fury overtook him.  He inhaled sharply and his nostrils flared as he caught the warm, heady scent of her passion.  And the altogether hateful scent of her lover, which still lingered on her smooth, white skin. With a savage snarl, he pushed her away, not caring when she cried out in pain as she fell back against the door handle. And as he carried on to the Training Room, storming black anger riding him hard, he heard the click of the latch and then the low murmur of her_ _lover comforting her_...

Nuada shoved aside the repugnant memory and thanked all the ancient Gods that his mind's connection with his sister was not what it once had been.  The life-long reciprocity they had shared had not been fully reanimated with their resurrection.  It was now one of those unwelcome echoes, an ephemeral shade that hovered beyond the reach of conscious thought and effort. He ruthlessly ignored the faint twinge of what might have been almost regret. 

No longer able to bear the sight of his sister, he shifted his gaze to the rest of the team but the view was little better; he had no time and no use for any of them.  His people faced a greater threat than the shadow creatures they were so concerned with.  The Fae stood in desperate need of guidance and leadership; theirs was now truly a world of decline and decay. 

A rush of shame overtook him as he thought about the wretched straits his people had fallen into after his sister had extinguished the light of the House of Airgetlám, leaving them leaderless – and helpless – against the voracious, indifferent tide of humanity. His father, for all his failings, had at least provided some semblance of order in their fading world.  Now there was none.  The aes sídhe were hopelessly adrift but somehow, against all odds, Nuada found himself walking this world once more and never again would he be so foolish as to dare someone to kill him.  He understood, as he hadn't before, that he represented the only chance his kind had of ever asserting their rightful claim to the earth and that was the only anchor he had in this whole demeaning situation.  His people would _not_ fade.

 

* * *

 

**References:**

Sídh: (Irish Gaelic) Old Irish word for ‘fairy mound’ (a round, flat-topped, manmade barrow or hillock of ancient origin) and by implication, the Otherworld.  Long-standing oral tradition holds that the fairy mounds, or sídhe, marked the places where the semi-divine Tuatha Dé Danann retreated to after their defeat by the mortal Milesians.  (In Modern Irish, the word sídh more commonly means ‘fairy’ instead of ‘fairy mound’.) 

Aes Sídhe (ays sheeth-uh): (Irish mythology) ‘People of the fairy mound’ - can be likened to elves.


End file.
